


Lightning Never Strikes (The Same Place) Twice

by TheTimeMachineJellyfish



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Sweet Home Alabama Fusion, Designer Aziraphale, Getting Back Together, Good Omens Rom Com Event, Happy Ending, Human AU, Light Angst, M/M, Many References to New Victorian Fashion, Mutual Pining, Rating May Change, Romantic Comedy, Sandalphon Being an Asshole (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-02-23 01:21:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23503474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheTimeMachineJellyfish/pseuds/TheTimeMachineJellyfish
Summary: Aziraphale has spent the last fifteen years reinventing himself in New York. On the cusp of professional success with his line of New Victorian clothing, he is surprised by a proposal from his partner, Gabriel. There is just one problem: Aziraphale is already married and his ex, Crowley, refuses to sign the divorce papers. He has no choice but to return home to Tadfield, where he discovers that leaving isn’t the same thing as moving on.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Gabriel (Good Omens)
Comments: 48
Kudos: 101
Collections: Good Omens Rom Com Event





	1. When It Rains

**Author's Note:**

> Here is my contribution to the Good Omens Rom Com Event! I want to give a shout-out to the good omens rom com server for helping me with my timeline and helping me make the decision that terrible, exclusionary marriage laws do not need to exist. So institutional homophobia is not a part of this story!
> 
> A Sweet Home Alabama fusion set between New York and Tadfield. Some dialogue lifting from the film in this first chapter, I take no credit for that. Thank you for reading!

** Tadfield, England - 1989 **

“Aziraphale.” Someone pushed his shoulder, hissing in his ear, and Aziraphale protested the tickling breath with a groan, batting at the voice with one hand. Crowley pulled down his blankets and poked him in the side with an insistent, “Come _on._ ” Aziraphale squirmed awake and climbed out of bed, stumbling after Crowley into the corridor. They crept downstairs, past the chapel and the kitchens and the toilets, to the front door.

“What about the sisters?” Aziraphale whispered.

“They already did bedchecks,” Crowley retorted, pulling two pairs of shoes out of the cubbies. He set Aziraphale’s down first and then pulled on his own, shoving his feet into the trainers without untying them. Crowley unlocked the door and opened it wide, reaching for Aziraphale’s hand to pull him outside. Together they ran across the courtyard and snuck through the brick and white stone arch of St. Beryl’s Children's Home. The streetlights glowed and reminded Aziraphale of the lamppost from _The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe_. It was his favorite book. Crowley promised to show him something better than Narnia (he hadn't even read the books!), but it was a secret. And it could only be seen at night.

Aziraphale trailed after Crowley, past the shadowy copse of trees next to the gate. “We’re going to get in so much trouble,” he murmured.

“Only if they catch us.” Crowley squeezed his hand, “We’re almost there.”

It was the empty lot at the end of the street and Crowley sat down in the grass, pulling Aziraphale down with him. He grumbled about sitting in the dirt until Crowley shushed him and pointed up. A streak of white moved across the sky and disappeared. Aziraphale gasped. A few seconds later, another one appeared. And _another_.

“Are those falling stars?” he asked.

Crowley’s shoulder bumped against his. “It’s a meteor shower.”

“Wow!” 

“It’s cool, huh?”

“Mhm.” Aziraphale smiled up at the sky. He laid there for a long time, counting meteors with Crowley, gasping at the brightest ones, and trying to think of wishes for them. Clouds began to slide over the stars and Aziraphale yawned into his own shoulder, bumping heads with Crowley. They blinked at each other in the dark.

“You wanna go off together?”

Aziraphale gaped at his friend. “What?”

“We could get married and run away,” Crowley said, “We could go to London.”

“No.” Aziraphale shook his head and sat up, dusting off his jumper.

“No to what? No London or no… going off together? Or no getting married? You can’t just say ‘no’.” Crowley rolled onto his side, pulling out yellow dandelions which he flicked at Aziraphale, earning a glare from his friend.

“I want to go to London,” he admitted, shifting to face Crowley properly. “But it’s not allowed, you know.” Ten-year-olds didn’t go on trips by themselves. Besides, Sister Mary promised to make him Turkish Delight before the first day of school, and Aziraphale didn't want to miss that. 

“It wouldn’t be _boring_ , if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I’m _not_ worried- stop doing that!” Aziraphale grabbed Crowley’s hand, so he would stop digging up the flowers.

“They’re weeds,” Crowley protested.

“They’re pretty.” Aziraphale liked yellow flowers. Who got to decide what a weed was anyway? The dandelions didn’t do anything to Crowley, and he was getting his hands dirty. “Why do you want to go off together?”

Crowley tugged on his sleeve, crooking his fingers to pull Aziraphale down close, and he said, “So I can snog you whenever I want.” Aziraphale turned pink but he didn’t push Crowley away. He shut his eyes and felt the tiniest brush of something soft against his lips- _BAM!_ Thunder cracked through the air and they broke apart with a scream. It started to rain with a sudden, unexpected _woosh!_ They ran all the way back to St. Beryl’s.

* * *

** Soho, New York City - 2020 **

Aziraphale gasped awake with his face pressed into the crease of his notebook, elbows folded against the unforgiving wood of the table. He sat up, wincing at the soft pop of his shoulders and rubbed at the back of his neck, wincing at the twinge of muscle. He was not young enough to be falling asleep at his desk. Thunder rattled the windows of his studio, wooden floors offset by red brick walls and natural light. It was warmer than the sleek industrial spaces favored by so many young artists, and he was grateful to Anathema for having found something more to his taste. And in Soho, no less, which was nothing short of a miracle.

Aziraphale frowned at the loose sheets of paper in front of him, drafts of sketches and last-minute notes on styling for the models, and with a shake of his head he gathered them up and slid them into his notebook. He glanced up at the sound of heels clicking on the floor and smiled gratefully as a white mug slid into view.

“Thank you, dear,” he murmured, taking the warm cup of tea from his stylist.

“You know, you talk in your sleep sometimes,” Anathema replied, raising her eyebrows.

Aziraphale’s face fell. “What did I say?”

Anathema adjusted the buttoned cuff of her Edwardian blouse, eyeing him with amusement before she put him out of his misery. “That we’re all getting raises when you become a household name.” She gestured around the room with a swoop of her fingers, and Aziraphale relaxed with a small smile. The studio was full of people he couldn’t do without – assistants, make up artists, tailors, and models – adjusting the clothes with safety pins and an eye for hemlines, the hairstyles and palette, organizing the clothes on each rack, confirming the number of tickets.

“You shouldn’t have let me sleep,” he sighed.

“It was only five minutes,” Anathema promised, holding out her hand to take the notebook as Aziraphale stood, “Drink your tea. Then we can go over the lighting.”

Aziraphale agreed. He gave himself six minutes to drink his tea and dwell on the fact that he was standing on the precipice of the rest of his life. It was half past five in the morning when he left the studio with his team – it was hard to believe he had a team, most of them a decade younger than him – and promised to see them in twelve hours at Skylight Clarkson Square. Aziraphale walked home, passing by the bleating of New York City traffic as it crawled down the streets, the rattling of shops opening, and catches of loud conversations over mobile.

Digging his keys out of his pocket, Aziraphale trudged up the front steps to his building, let himself in and took a shoddy lift to his floor. Letting himself into his flat, Aziraphale pressed the door shut and sighed. The fatigue of the past six months was catching up to him, it seemed, but he knew he ought to try to sleep a few hours. He took off his coat and hung it in the foyer, turning around to see a dozen roses in a glass vase at the end of the corridor. A small smile tugging at his lips, Aziraphale walked into his living room to see a dozen more vases.

Roses covered his coffee table and his desk, which had been organized in his absence. His papers were missing – presumably they had been put into one of the drawers – and his books had been pulled from their shelves and stacked on the floor to make room for the flowers. Aziraphale felt a flicker of annoyance. He quashed the sentiment as soon as he realized what it was, instantly remorseful. It was a very romantic gesture.

Aziraphale pushed the flickering red button on his answering machine, leaning over to smell one of the bouquets as Gabriel’s voice came over the line. _“Good morning, sunshine. There’s a rose for every moment I thought of you last night…_ ” Aziraphale shook his head, smiling at the sound of Gabriel’s voice, _“Make sure you get some rest. I’ll see you at the show tonight. You’re going to knock ‘em dead, Ezra. I love you.”_

Aziraphale didn’t know what he’d done to deserve a man like him. He was still smiling when he changed into his pajamas, washed up, and climbed into bed. If he dreamed, he didn’t remember it. He woke up a few hours later to the smell of roses.

* * *

Backstage was chaotic and crowded, with staff and models huddled in front of vanity mirrors. Aziraphale’s team wore black shirts with his name – rather, the name of his line ‘A.Z. Fell’ – on them, bumping into one another as they rushed to complete the models, stripping down the racks of clothing scattered throughout the space. Tailored pieces, midi skirts, voluminous sleeves, cinched waists and the dramatic push and pull of corsets, intricate lattice-like design, high necklines, single-breasted jacquard jackets, pointed toe boots, rosy cheeks, soft lips and hair in tightly wound buns. What he hoped to attain was that fitted, dreamlike and – yes – romantic quality of the Victorian era.

“Where is your bag?” He stopped one of the models, “Come with me. Anathema!” She appeared like a vision with the golden clutch hanging off her wrist. It was tassel-embellished and woven, one of his most whimsical pieces. He exchanged a grateful look with his stylist before bumping into one of his assistants, who was panicking because one of the models was missing her gloves and a floral applique had fallen off one of the boots. Aziraphale managed to sort out those issues _and_ correct a lace-trimmed tulle bolero that someone had put on backwards.

“Ezra.”

Aziraphale turned at the sound of his name and smiled in greeting. “Uriel,” he crossed the staging area to greet them, brushing a kiss to each cheek, “What a pleasant surprise. You look wonderful.” They wore a fitted lilac suit with a peach satin jabot which created an elegant ruffle and accentuated the cut of their jacket.

“I wanted to check in on my competition,” they said good-naturedly, “And to congratulate you. Fifteen years ago, you were a glorified librarian and now look at you, headlining your own show.”

Uriel had hired him as a consultant for one of their shows and they were impressed with his breadth of knowledge about fashion design, fabrics, patterns and practices of bygone eras. He was hopeless with anything after 1901, truth be told, but there was a niche for his expertise. He spent several years working for them as a designer and tailor. Due in no small part to Uriel’s support, he now had the opportunity to show his own work at Fashion Week. 

“By the grace of God,” Aziraphale replied with a nervous tug of his bowtie, wishing he was half as calm as Uriel seemed to be, “Honestly, I feel as if I’m one broken zipper away from a heart attack.”

Uriel smiled. “If you weren’t terrified, I’d be concerned,” they assured him, “You’re going to do fine. I have every confidence in you.”

“Thank you,” _pull it together, Aziraphale_ , “It means the world to have you here.”

“Of course,” Uriel took a cursory look around the backstage area, “I wouldn’t miss it. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’d better find my seat.” Aziraphale nodded in response, and Uriel touched his shoulder, “Bonne chance.”

Aziraphale turned his attention back to the models, and in the midst of fixing someone’s blush he overheard Gabriel’s name. Someone had unmuted the press coverage on the television near the sound booth.

_“Secretary Hennings, do you have a moment for a few questions?”_

_“Gabriel, are you looking forward to the show?”_

_“Will your brother be making an appearance, Secretary Hennings?”_

Aziraphale watched with a smile as Gabriel – dressed in a grey Armani suit and silk tie - moved through the crowd of reporters and attendees, shaking hands, smiling into the camera, and answering each question.

“Doesn’t he seem a little too perfect?” Anathema mused, sidling up next to him.

Aziraphale spared her a brief glance. “For me? Of course, he is.” Gabriel was the secretary of the state of New York, brother to the mayor, and listed year after year as one of the most eligible bachelors in the city.

“That’s not what I meant,” Anathema said, “I like a man with an obvious flaw. That way you know he's human." 

"He is a politician, dear," Aziraphale reminded her. _Flawless is part of the image_. And it wasn't just an image. Gabriel was everything he wasn't. Charismatic and thick-skinned, a natural leader, decisive, confident, unbearably attractive and never wrong.

"Yet another strike against him," she wrinkled her nose playfully. 

Aziraphale shook his head and murmured, “He asked me to go to Greece for Christmas.”

“He’s going to ask you a lot more than that.”

The thought of – the _implication_ – startled Aziraphale and he looked at the stylist. “How do you know?”

“I just do,” she replied simply. Anathema had never predicted anything that didn’t come true but- no, now wasn’t the time to think about whether Gabriel would propose to him. The stage managers shouted for the models to line up and with a squeeze of Anathema’s hand, Aziraphale bustled away to count them off. Then the show started and afterwards, he would say he hardly remembered any of it. It was one blur of adrenaline and terror, culminating in his walk down the runway at the very end, where he bowed, smiled, and accompanied his models backstage to the sound of applause. It was still ringing in his ears when Anathema pulled him into a hug.

* * *

The reception was full of champagne, photographers, models, members of his team and strangers he’d never met but should probably know… and who were likely judging him. Gabriel stopped by to congratulate him again before leaving for a meeting in the Bronx. He _also_ reminded Aziraphale of the fundraiser at the Lincoln Center… with his brother… that was also tonight. Aziraphale had forgotten about it in the midst of his show preparation. Truth be told, he might have scrubbed it from his memory on purpose. He wasn’t looking forward to making small talk with Sandalphon Hennings who, Aziraphale was fairly certain, hated him. At the very least, he did not think a forty-something fashion designer was good enough for his brother. Aziraphale couldn’t disagree with that, so he bore the snide comments and the backhanded compliments as best he could, and he tried not to draw attention to himself.

A car was waiting for him. Aziraphale was struck by a bone-deep fatigue as he settled into the leather seats and the driver pulled away from the curb. He didn’t want to dwell on what he would’ve done differently at the show and there was no use fretting about the critics tonight – with the notable expectation of Gabriel’s brother. Aziraphale had changed his shirt and bowtie, and he fussed with the sleeves of his coat. It occurred to him after a few minutes that he didn’t recognize what was outside the window, but he knew for a fact this wasn’t the Bronx.

“Er, excuse me…” Aziraphale leaned forward, confused, as the car pulled to a stop.

“His meeting is running late,” the driver, Leslie, explained, peering at Aziraphale in the rearview mirror, “Mr. Hennings said I should take you inside, so you don’t have to wait in the car.” Privately, Aziraphale would have preferred to wait in the car to standing in the lobby of some building, but Gabriel’s driver opened the door and he felt obliged to go along with it. Aziraphale couldn’t tell what sort of business it was in the dark, and he didn’t have the chance to linger on the details. Leslie led him into an empty corridor. At the end of it stood Gabriel.

Aziraphale glanced between Leslie and Gabriel, who stood with his hands clasped in front of him. Taking a few uncertain steps forward, Aziraphale joined his partner. “I thought you were in a meeting,” he said.

Gabriel smiled, sliding an arm around Aziraphale’s back and guiding him into the next room which was barely illuminated by the corridor behind them. “Have you given any thought to Greece?”

“What do you mean?” Aziraphale hadn’t exactly given Gabriel an answer on Greece. It was four months away and he hesitated to make personal decisions that far in advance. He tried not to have expectations of other people, because he remembered what it felt like to be disappointed. Too many times to count.

“I’m thinking three hundred people, tops.”

“For _Christmas?_ ” Aziraphale gaped at his partner, “Gabriel, doesn’t that strike you as a bit… excessive?”

“Not at all.” Gabriel signaled to someone in the dark and suddenly the lights flickered on overheard. Aziraphale turned around and saw that they were standing in a jewelry store. A dozen glass counters fully staffed and glittering with gold and diamonds. Every single person was staring at them. Aziraphale couldn’t breathe.

“Oh, God.”

“Ezra Fell,” Gabriel took his hands and knelt on the carpet in his designer suit, smiled up at him and asked, “Will you marry me?”

Aziraphale had the wherewithal to shut his mouth so he wasn’t gaping down at his partner, but his brow furrowed, and he shifted uncomfortably. He wished he could pull his hands away, before his palms began to sweat. “A-a-are you sure?” he stammered, swallowing a swoop of guilt as the smile faded from Gabriel’s face, “Because you aren’t sure, we could go back to the car. We wouldn’t want to be late to your brother’s fundraiser.”

“Ezra…”

“I-it’s only been a year.” It felt too fast. Aziraphale was not ready to do this again.

Gabriel got to his feet and stepped close to him, his voice quiet enough that only Aziraphale could hear it. “You know I would never do anything rash,” he said firmly, his eyes earnest and full of certainty that came from God knew where, “And I never ask a question I don’t already know the answer to. So, at the risk of being rejected twice,” he smiled, patiently, “I’m going to ask you again. Ezra, will you marry me?”

Aziraphale glanced away from Gabriel’s face to the rest of the room. A dozen store employees were staring at him, smiling, expecting him to say yes and he couldn’t bring himself to disappoint an audience. He looked up at Gabriel and pushed the fear down, nodding once, “Yes.”

Gabriel grinned and drew him into a kiss, and Aziraphale leaned into it with a hand on his chiseled jawline. Aziraphale blushed as they broke apart, keenly aware of being watched. Then Gabriel gestured to the room and told him to _pick one_. It was the most romantic thing anyone had ever done for him. Accepting the proposal was the right thing to do, and it made Gabriel happy. Aziraphale did love him.

In the back of the car, they snogged until Gabriel pulled away to whisper that he’d been planning this for weeks, that tonight was perfect, and he couldn’t wait to see his brother’s face. Aziraphale’s heart sank at the realization that Mayor Hennings did _not_ know about the engagement.

“Let’s call your parents,” Gabriel suggested, pulling out his phone.

Aziraphale blanched. “No!” he protested, a bit sharply. He softened his response as quickly as he could, “N-not yet. I was hoping we could keep this to ourselves for a few days…”

“Ezra,” Gabriel frowned at him, “People are going to find out sooner or later.”

“I know,” Aziraphale replied, his voice soft and entreating, “It’s only that… well… I haven’t seen my family in over ten years, and I feel that _this_ is… it’s so wonderful, it’s something I should tell them in person.”

“Of course.”

Gabriel sounded mollified and this encouraged Aziraphale to add, as gently as he could, “And I think it’s something I should tell them alone.”

“They’re going to have to meet me eventually.”

“I know, and I know they will love you,” Aziraphale brushed his fingertips against Gabriel’s tie, “Eventually.”

“Is it because I’m American?” Aziraphale smiled in response. He would let Gabriel believe whatever he needed to in order to secure a promise out of him that this engagement would _not_ become front page news. It wasn’t that Aziraphale was ashamed of Gabriel - he was the _perfect_ man in every way, and it was a beautiful proposal - but there were some things he needed to take care of first.

Aziraphale thought he would have a few days of reprieve, and he was prepared to smile and nod his way through the fundraiser. Then Sandalphon grabbed his hand in one of his painfully tight handshakes, noticed the ring around a very important finger, and ignoring Aziraphale’s panicked expression, blurted out in front of the reporters a thundering, accusatory, _“You’re engaged?_ ” The rest of the night was terribly uncomfortable, and he had never been more grateful to Gabriel who mediated between his furious brother and his fiancé.

The next morning, Aziraphale was on a flight to London.


	2. Smooth Sailing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale attempts to reason with Crowley. A pen is stolen.

** Tadfield, England **

Aziraphale rented a car at Heathrow and braved the M25 on his way out of London. At Junction 16, just past Iver Heath, he merged onto the M40 and from there it was an easy straightforward trip to Tadfield. The traffic thinned as he drove out of the city, industrial sites giving way to rolling mounds and stretches of forest. The countryside was beautiful. Villages lay nestled at the bottom of sweeping valleys, and it was green from the road to the horizon, sheep grazing in the hills and bluebells growing along the highway. Aziraphale drove past the corner shops along the main street of Lower Tadfield, the church, the newspaper, the primary school (which had been repainted since he last saw it), and the post office. He tightened his fingers on the steering wheel as the road grew uneven.

He pulled up to a stone cottage with white trim, yellow pansies blooming in the window boxes. He remembered the day they planted those, and it was strange to see them blooming fifteen years later. His gaze swept over the fence to the unmistakable shape of a vintage 1933 Bentley parked in the driveway. Aziraphale swallowed around a dry knot in his throat, shrinking in his seat as he saw Crowley’s head bob into view. He was buffing out the wax on the driver’s side door with a soft black cloth. Aziraphale recognized the label on the spray bottle and the, er, technique. Crowley always said that people who paid to have their cars washed were idiots, and he was very thorough. He would start with the front left wheel. He scrubbed the exterior and interior of the rim with a mitt, then transition to a soft-bristled brush to reach the spots between the spokes, the lug notes, and the wheel wells. He rinsed the wheel and wiped it down before moving on to the next one. It took him hours to finish. So meticulous.

Then he moved on to the rest of the car. _You never wash in circles. Circles leave spots. Clean, vertical lines. You try it._ Aziraphale did not want to try it and declined the offer of a sudsy mitt. _I prefer to watch, dear._ Crowley grinned at him and put an extra sway in his walk. It was very attractive. He would talk to Aziraphale throughout the process and explain what he was doing and why, and how it was better than what other people did. Aziraphale was left with a swath of information about cars which he rarely used except on the odd trivia question.

 _Q: Which car manufacturer acquired Bentley in 1931?  
_A: Rolls-Royce.

Crowley stood up and stretched, with a mesmerizing flex of his shoulders and back visible through his fitted black shirt. Aziraphale glanced down at his lap, fiddling with the engagement ring on his finger. It was delicate, not ostentatious, a ¾ carat solitaire diamond in a raised channel setting of 18K gold. Gabriel didn’t tell him the price until after they’d bought it – seven thousand dollars. _I always knew you had expensive tastes_. Gabriel laughed. Aziraphale thought he was going to pass out. He closed his eyes and dispelled the sound of his fiancé’s voice, pulling the ring off his finger with a gentle twist. He slipped the ring into his back pocket and reached for the manila envelope in the side panel of his bag.

Aziraphale got out of the rental car with uneasy steps. Hesitating at the end of the track, he knew the moment Crowley realized someone was behind him. There was a gradual tension in his body and, without turning around, he pulled small white knobs out of his ears – earphones? Aziraphale forgot what they were called – and tossed the rag over his shoulder.

“Something I can do for you?” he drawled, and Aziraphale felt the pull of it under his skin. Crowley turned around with a lazy smirk and his designer sunglasses and- he dropped the can of wax on the ground.

“As a matter of fact, there is,” Aziraphale held up the manila envelope and watched Crowley’s face close into a smooth, unreadable mask. It made him defensive, made it easier to say, “You can give me a divorce.”

Crowley scoffed, “Are you joking?”

“No, I am not joking,” and it was infuriating the way he tilted his head to the side, as if Aziraphale was doing something entertaining – or embarrassing, “I did not fly across an ocean for a joke,” he pulled out the papers, “Let’s put this arrangement behind us, Crowley.”

“ _Arrangement?_ ” Crowley peeled the rag off his shoulder and tossed it on the Bentley, “You come here after fifteen years talking about 'arrangements' without so much as a ‘Hello, my dear, how have you been? Remember me, _your husband_?’”

“I do _not_ sound like that,” Aziraphale retorted waspishly, “And I am not your husband.”

“I think the courts would disagree.”

“Because you won’t sign the papers!” Aziraphale considered himself even-tempered but Crowley had an innate talent for frustrating him to the point of tears. Determined not to give his very ex-husband the satisfaction of riling him up, he paused, took a deep breath, and ignored the condescending arch of eyebrows over those dark sunglasses. “The sections are highlighted, and the document comes with these clever tabs,” Aziraphale brushed his thumb over the slips of yellow paper marking each page, showing them to Crowley, and then spread the papers out on the bonnet of his car, “So you know exactly where to sign. There’s one copy for me, one copy for you, and one for the lawyers.”

Aziraphale turned around expectantly to find Crowley staring at him with one of those inscrutable expressions. “What?” he demanded. Without a word, Crowley pivoted on his heel and walked away. “What are you doing? Crowley!”

“Leaving!” Crowley shouted back over his shoulder, taking the steps up to the house in two long strides, “You’ve done it. You should recognize the gesture.” With that, he gave Aziraphale the finger and slammed the front door shut.

It was unaccountably rude. Aziraphale scooped up the papers and marched up the driveway to the front door. “Crowley!” he knocked, then shifted to peer into the window. He saw movement inside beyond the plants on the ledge, “Do you know how much the lawyer billed me each time you sent these papers back?” Not to mention the cost of purchasing a round-trip international ticket less than twenty-four hours before departure.

“At least you finally got the message!” Crowley yanked the curtains shut.

Aziraphale stomped his foot on the ground, exasperated. They both knew the only reason he wouldn’t sign the papers was because _Aziraphale_ wanted him to, and he got a thrill out of being spiteful. Aziraphale turned around and walked down the steps around the side of the house to the garden. He lifted the top of the gate post and found his spare key, then returned the way he’d come. Sliding the manila envelope underneath one arm, Aziraphale unlocked and eased open the front door, stepping inside. Crowley was moving about in the kitchen, which gave him an opportunity to look around.

The exterior of the house hadn’t changed at all but the interior… their furniture was gone, replaced with a white leather sofa, a glass coffee table, and a flatscreen television mounted where a bookshelf used to be. There were other electronic accoutrements, including video game controllers, CDs, vinyl records, and one very intimidating sound system behind a pane of glass. His houseplants covered the window ledge and the floating shelves on the otherwise empty walls. The hardwood floors had been replaced with white tile inlay. Crowley reappeared in the threshold of the kitchen with a bottle of whiskey in his hand. His lips twisted at the sight of the half-open door and Aziraphale standing in his living room.

“You forgot about the spare key,” Aziraphale informed him smugly, holding it up for emphasis.

Crowley scowled. “I didn’t _forget_ about it,” he jabbed a finger – well, the bottle – in Aziraphale’s direction, “ _You_ never told me where it was.”

“You should’ve gotten the locks changed then,” Aziraphale sat down on the sofa and set the manila folder on the table, “Perhaps while you were _tiling_ over the white oak floors.” They were French with a champagne stain – beautiful, he had a matching bookshelf once - and it was an affront to good taste that Crowley had covered them up. He took a lovely cottage and turned it into a minimalist nightmare.

“You don’t like the remodel?”

He felt Crowley walk behind him and suppressed a shiver. “It’s hideous,” Aziraphale muttered.

“Ha!” Weight pressed into the leather with a squeak, and Crowley all but draped himself over the back of the sofa, “It’s a good thing this isn’t your house,” he replied, voice dipping low and threatening but with no real bite, “Now get out.”

“I would love to." Aziraphale turned to glare at Crowley, who was leaning his dirty arms on this white furniture without a care in the world, chin propped up in one hand, “All you need to do is sign these papers.”

“And you’ll leave?”

“Yes!” Aziraphale pulled a pen out of his left breast pocket and held it out to Crowley, “I have a flight out of Heathrow tonight. I promise, I will never bother you again.” 

He genuinely seemed to be considering it. He took the pen. Then, he shrugged. “Nah.” He straightened up and sauntered off.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale climbed off the sofa and followed until Crowley shut the bedroom door in his face, “Could we _please_ be civilized about this?” he asked, shaking the locked doorknob with an angry huff, “Just sign the papers so I can go home!”

“What do you know about home?” Crowley cracked the door to look at him, and Aziraphale was tempted to push it hard enough to knock some sense - or a headache - into him, “I bet no one even knows you’re here.”

Aziraphale glared. “That’s my business.”

“Angel, that’s your family.”

“Don’t _angel_ me, Crowley.” He shut the door again. Aziraphale tried to wedge his foot into the doorframe, but he wasn’t fast enough. And the tussle scuffed his shoe. “Sign these papers, you stubborn, selfish wanker, or I swear to God-”

“Go to Hell, Aziraphale!”

“ _You_ go to Hell,” it was not his best rejoinder, “And give me back my pen!” Worse. There was silence on the other end of the door, and then a soft scratching noise. A few seconds later, the pen rolled out from under the door, without its cap. When they were together, Crowley would do that all the time. He was allergic to putting the caps back on anything: pens, dish soap, cough medicine, mouthwash. “You are such a child!”

Silence. He must have been so pleased with himself. Aziraphale picked up his pen and returned to the living room. He sat on the sofa. He was determined to get that signature, and there was nothing Crowley could do to make him leave.

Until he called the Neighbourhood Watch. Half an hour later, Aziraphale was forcibly escorted off the property under threat of being arrested – by the proper authorities – per Mr. R.P. Tyler, who was as recalcitrant as he was ill-tempered. He had always hated Aziraphale, both of them, really. Crowley waved at him from the front yard looking smug, stolen pen cap tucked in the V of his t-shirt.

* * *

**Manhattan, New York**

Sandalphon Hennings sat in his office with his hands folded behind his head, wondering why his brother decided to do this to him. He was grooming Gabriel for the presidency and he insisted on dragging their family through this for an English designer. It was classic rebellion, nothing more than a dramatic rebound from his last relationship with… who was it he dated? Some hot-shot lawyer from San Francisco. _Perfect._

“What do we know?” he asked, leaning forward, folding his hands on the desk.

“There’s no record of an Ezra Fell in Tadfield,” Michael informed him, consulting their notes with a steady hand, “No family history. No record of an Ezra Fell attending either primary school. Ever.”

“Jesus Christ,” Sandalphon swore, exchanging a disgusted look with his assistant, “He didn’t just appear out of thin air.” There was something wrong with him, and he would find out what it was before he let his brother anywhere near an altar, “I want you to track him down. Go to Tadfield.”

“And Gabriel?”

“You leave Gabriel to me.”


	3. One Step Closer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale regroups and tries a new approach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw brief, non-graphic reference to attempted animal abuse (said animal is rescued and lives a full life!)

** Tadfield, England **

As Aziraphale was turning at the end of the street, with Mr. Tyler’s car behind him, he noticed movement in his rearview mirror. A moment later, Crowley’s Bentley peeled out of the track with a squeal of tires. He drove off in the opposite direction. God only knew when he'd come back.

Mr. Tyler ought to have chastised Crowley for speeding, Aziraphale thought, but he was a myopic fellow. He insisted on following Aziraphale back to the village, accompanying him to the front door of one Marjorie Potts. He knocked lightly and prayed she would be home. Someone must have been listening, and he sighed in relief as the door swung open. Marjorie Potts stepped onto the landing in a pink kimono with green stockings, her hair blonde and pinned out of her face. It was longer than he remembered and no longer red or styled in that charming 1920s finger wave. Her heavily made up eyes widened in surprise, lips forming a small ‘oh’ before relaxing into a warm smile.

“My goodness, Aziraphale, is that you?”

He managed a small smile in response. “Hello, Marjorie.”

“Ms. Potts,” Mr. Tyler cleared his throat, stiff and disapproving, “He says he’s staying with you while he’s in town. Is that so?”

Marjorie glanced between them, expression softening at the pleading look on Aziraphale’s face. “Of course, he is. How good of you to bring him by, Mr. Tyler,” she opened the door to welcome him inside.

“He was caught trespassing on private property,” Mr. Tyler warned her.

Aziraphale suppressed a roll of his eyes. “I used _my_ key.”

“Ah,” she nodded sagely, and squeezed his arm, “You and Crowley are on speaking terms again, that’s nice.” Aziraphale shifted uncomfortably, tugging at his bowtie, and fortunately he was saved from further questions about Crowley as Marjorie noticed Mr. Tyler still standing in the corridor, eyeing the interior suspiciously. “Have a seat, love,” she addressed Aziraphale first, patting him on the shoulder, then turned to the door, “Thank you, Mr. Tyler,” she arched her brow in a clear dismissal, despite the friendly tone of voice, “I’ll take it from here.”

Grumbling to himself with a promise to ‘keep an eye on’ Aziraphale, Mr. Tyler fulfilled his civic duty and departed. As Marjorie shut the door, Aziraphale sank into a chair at her séance table with a sigh. He could have refused to cooperate with Mr. Tyler – the Neighorhood Watch did not, for all its self-importance, have any real authority - but he was loathed to involve a police constable in his personal business. He was terribly jetlagged, and his mobile was dead, and he was coming to terms with the fact that he would not be on a flight to New York this evening.

“I am sorry about this, Marjorie,” he pinched the bridge of his nose, “I didn’t mean to put you out…”

“Oh tosh,” she bumped her hip against the armchair with a smile, “You’re always welcome here, love.” She gave him a considerate once-over, “Something tells me it wasn’t Crowley who knackered you out.”

“No!” Aziraphale’s eyes widened, and he straightened in his chair, “No. It was unfinished business, that’s all. Purely… ah… a matter of paperwork. Crowley and I aren’t… that is…”

Marjorie laughed, waving off his stammering with a wink, “I’m teasing, dear. You don’t need to explain yourself to me. Let’s get you settled with a nice cuppa, hm?” She disappeared into the kitchen before Aziraphale recovered from his embarrassment. He would never turn down a cup of tea. He missed the ritual of it dreadfully, living in America. “Biscuits?” Marjorie called out to him over the sound of water running, “Are you hungry?”

“Yes, thank you,” Aziraphale called back, “Famished, actually.” He had eaten on the plane but nothing since. Driving to Tadfield had his stomach in knots. He hadn’t wanted to prolong this trip by stopping for lunch.

Listening to Marjorie in the kitchen, Aziraphale took in the familiar warmth of her living room. It had always been eclectic, and as a teenager he had admired her Japanese prints, wooden parasols, urns, porcelain vases, antique lamps and crystal balls, utterly incongruous with one another in terms of theme, time period and region but warm and inviting. The room and all its contents were designed to stage the mystique expected of the celebrated medium, Madame Tracy. It hadn’t changed very much from what he remembered, and Aziraphale wished it didn’t stir up such painful memories. There was a time when he spent nearly every day here, after Crowley had been asked to leave St. Beryl’s.

Marjorie reemerged from the kitchen with tea and egg sandwiches on a lotus print tray, a box of lemon biscuits under her arm. For a few minutes they sat quietly together and Aziraphale avoided her gaze, taking one of the sandwich quarters from the tray. White bread, eggs, mayonnaise, yogurt and mustard, spiced with dill, parsley, salt and pepper. It was no duck breast in apricot chutney, but it was _comfort food_.

“What are you thinking so hard about, love?” Marjorie prompted him gently, raising a brow.

Aziraphale glanced at her and smiled. “I would know your egg sandwiches anywhere,” he replied, “As wonderful as I remember.”

Marjorie laughed, waving off the praise. “Don’t tell me they don’t have these in America.”

“They do,” Aziraphale acknowledged, thinking of the number of bagel and coffee shops he passed on the daily basis, sandwiches wrapped in plastic behind the glass display case.

“Ah, but it’s not the same, is it?” Marjorie leaned forward with a scrunch of her nose and said, “Doesn’t taste like home.”

Aziraphale’s smile faltered. “Quite,” he agreed, “Although, I must say New York really does feel like home.”

“Oh?”

“Yes.” It bothered him to be escorted to Marjorie’s flat like a delinquent, a resonance of his youth whereby he would get into trouble _because of Crowley_. The humiliation and the inconvenience of it was one thing, but Tadfield was _not_ his home. He was _not_ the same person he used to be. “I design clothes, you know. I’ve just come from the debut of my new line,” at New York Fashion Week, no less, “I’ve had articles written and photoshoots done. People love my work. People want to _know_ me. They want to wear my designs.” Aziraphale had made something out of himself.

Marjorie smiled at him over the rim of her teacup. “And you’re happy?”

“Very happy,” Aziraphale insisted, shifting in his seat to pull the ring out of his pocket. He had forgotten about it but now- he slid it onto his finger and showed it to Marjorie, whose eyes widened, “I’ve met someone. A wonderful man. And he’s asked me to marry him.”

“Let me have a look at that,” Marjorie tugged his hand closer to her face, “Bloody hell, Aziraphale.” He felt himself growing red, regretting his decision to show her, “That must have put him back a few quid.”

Aziraphale smiled awkwardly as she let go of his hand. He put it in his lap. “His name is Gabriel.”

“Well,” Marjorie gave him a long look, and he couldn’t be sure what she was looking for, “I sure would like to meet this Gabriel.”

Aziraphale made some sort of vague assent before excusing himself. He borrowed Marjorie’s landline to make a call to the airline, where he haggled over a rebooking of his flight, and then left a message for Gabriel. He was very tired and was hoping to lay down for a few hours. Marjorie forbade him from clearing the table, but she did send him to pick up his overnight bag from the car. Then she showed him to the guest room – the same one he’d stayed in as a teenager – and left him to it. Aziraphale washed up in the bathroom and sat down on the edge of the bed. He opened the closet door to hang up his coat and saw a hooded sweatshirt in the back. Aziraphale took it out by the hanger and exhaled sharply. It was black with a yellow banana on the front, with the logo from _The Velvet Underground_.

It was Crowley’s.

Aziraphale hesitated. He had only brought one change of clothes for the plane ride home, and no pajamas because he hadn’t anticipated needing to stay overnight.

 _No._ No, he was not going to wear an old sweatshirt to bed. It probably wouldn’t even fit and who knew when it had last been washed? Aziraphale stuffed the sweatshirt in the closet and closed the doors. He moved the pillows and stuffed animals, climbed into bed wearing his pants and pulled the heavy pink comforter up to his chin. He should’ve been able to go right to sleep, but instead he stayed awake, staring at his engagement ring in the red glint of the digital clock by the bed. He took the ring off, twisting it between his fingers, and put it on the table.

Then he rolled onto his side, buried his face into scented pillows, and willed himself to go to sleep.

* * *

The next morning, Aziraphale called his lawyer, who told him a contested divorce would take another six months and require him to appear in court. There would be two hearings and evidence involved. Aziraphale didn’t have six months. He didn't have six days. He didn’t live in England anymore and he refused to fly back and forth just to explain to a room full of strangers why their marriage had _irretrievably broken down._ Crowley would make a horrible spectacle of it.

Aziraphale was in a sour mood and decided to drive into town so as not to subject Marjorie to it. His first stop was the bank. There was one bank in Tadfield and the bank had one ATM. _SORRY, THIS ATM IS TEMPORARILY OUT OF SERVICE._

“Of course it is,” Aziraphale frowned at the smudged screen, pinched the bridge of his nose and wished for the patience of Job. Then he walked inside. He waited in line for twenty minutes to reach the counter, barely glancing at the teller as he pulled out his wallet. “Good morning-”

“Aziraphale, is that you?”

He blinked at the woman, blonde hair cut into a neat bob, wearing a soft-looking jumper and a nametag that read- “Deirdre? Deirdre Brooke?” She was a few years younger than him and Crowley, but they were friends.

She smiled brightly and stretched out her hand for him to see the gold band around her finger, “Deirdre Young these days,” she corrected him, “Arthur and I tied the knot, ten years ago this April.”

“Really?” Aziraphale was surprised, though perhaps he shouldn’t have been. Arthur had been in love with her since secondary school, and it seemed everyone knew it but Deirdre, who was dating… someone else at the time… a footballer, Aziraphale couldn’t remember. “Congratulations, Deirdre.”

“Cheers,” she withdrew her hand happily, “We’ve got a son now, his name’s Adam. Do you want to see a picture?” Aziraphale had never mastered the art of declining those types of questions, so he smiled and nodded, made the appropriate exclamations and one-word remarks as Deirdre went through her photo album on her mobile, pointing out the other children, explaining to him who had gotten together with whom in their mutual friend group. This was exactly the sort of thing Aziraphale had hoped to avoid by going to an ATM, but eventually she got around to asking him, “So what brings you back to Tadfield?”

“Visiting… old friends,” Aziraphale replied evenly, taking the opportunity to redirect the conversation, “I noticed the ATM wasn’t working?”

“Oh, that,” she sighed, “It’s been broken for ages. Management won’t lift a finger, says it’s better this way.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale tried not to sound impatient, “Well, I’d like to make a withdrawal-”

“From your joint account?”

“My what?”

“Your joint account,” Deirdre repeated, glancing between him and the computer screen, “Crowley was in here just the other day making a deposit. You’re still married, aren’t you?”

Aziraphale smiled, the beginnings of an idea forming in his mind, “Yes, we are.”

* * *

There was no forcing Crowley to do something he didn’t want to do.

Aziraphale obviously couldn’t appeal to his better nature or common sense as he did not have either of those things. A contested divorce would take too long and it would ruin his relationship with Gabriel. Aziraphale had lied to him – to everyone in New York - about where he came from and who he was, because he was ashamed of it. His parents were gone. He got married at eighteen and by his mid-twenties, he still hadn’t earned a degree. He was unfulfilled and unhappy. Why they thought having a child would make things better was remarkably short-sighted and selfish, and in retrospect Aziraphale could see how fortunate he was that the adoption fell through. It had given him the strength to leave.

“What the hell!”

Aziraphale smirked at the sound of Crowley’s voice, smoothed out his apron, and picked up the plate of oysters. He carried them into the living room which he’d taken the liberty of redesigning into a proper dining room and sitting area. Gone was the leather sofa and the eyesore of an entertainment system, replaced by a plush red tartan sofa and matching armchairs. He brought in a gramophone, bookshelves and a sewing machine, of course, a new dining room table since Crowley didn’t seem to own one, which he’d decorated with bishop’s fold cloth napkins, flowers, candles, and a seafood medley for dinner. There was a bottle of white wine chilling between the chairs.

“Hello, my dear,” Aziraphale greeted him cheerfully, holding out the tray, “Oyster?”

“Where is my _stuff_?” Crowley turned around, taking in the porcelain angel figurines on the window ledge, “Where are my plants?”

“Oh, I threw those out,” Aziraphale replied, “It’s too much work for you to look after them,” not to mention the cost of care and maintenance, the pesticides, “But don’t you worry, I replaced them with these nice artificial ones.” He set down the tray of oysters and picked up a potted orchid, “They are much more durable, Crowley.”

“You brought _fake plants_ into my house?!” An angry red flush crawled up his neck. He sounded furious.

Aziraphale gave him an indulgent smile. “I’m your husband. It’s my job to look after you.”

“You don’t live here!”

Aziraphale adjusted one of the orchid’s plastic petals before putting it back on the table, “I had a lovely chat with Mr. Tyler today. It turns out that my name is still on the lease.” This meant, of course, that Crowley couldn’t call the Neighborhood Watch or the constable because he wasn’t breaking any laws. He had as much of a legal right to be here as Crowley.

“I thought we could celebrate my homecoming with a nice dinner.” Resting his hands on the back of the chair, he said, “Tadfield’s culinary offerings still leave something to be desired, so I ordered out from the Ritz. Remember how you promised to take me there for our honeymoon?”

Crowley scowled at him. “Give me the spare key.”

Aziraphale went on as if he didn’t hear him, “Of course you don’t. We never did go,” because neither of them could afford it. There _was_ no honeymoon. They got drunk on the sofa instead. “I was worried takeaway would be out of the question, but it turns out that if you spend enough money, the staff are very accommodating.”

Crowley scoffed, shrugging out of his jacket and throwing it aside. He picked up the synthetic orchid with a curl of his lip, turning it over in his hand. “If you want to waste your money…”

“Darling, it wasn’t _my_ money,” Aziraphale’s expression remained pleasant, “I spent _our_ money. Deirdre Young at the bank was very helpful. She reminded me that we still have a joint account.” The satisfaction of watching Crowley’s eyes widen, jaw slacken, at the realization was worth every single oyster on the plate.

“How much did you take?” Crowley’s voice was soft, on the verge of threatening.

Aziraphale rounded the dinner table and held his ground. “All of it.”

Crowley flung the orchid into the wall, shattering the vase. “You bastard!”

“You wanted a husband!” Aziraphale tugged at the strings around his neck and pulled the apron off, throwing it on the ground as Crowley stormed past him, “You should be investing that money. Don’t you have any foresight?”

Crowley rocked to a stop outside his bedroom, fingers digging into the doorframe, “Get out of my house.”

Aziraphale walked over to the sofa and opened his bag, pulling out the manila envelope. “Sign the papers, and I will give it all back.”

Crowley pivoted to glare at him. “Fine.”

“Fine.” Aziraphale held out the envelope to Crowley, who crossed the room to snatch it from him. He sat down on the edge of the sofa and emptied the papers onto the coffee table.

“I need a pen,” he said, without looking up. 

Aziraphale dug into his bag to pull one out, it was a Montblanc fountain pen engraved with a quote from Oscar Wilde: _To live is the rarest thing in the world._ Crowley held out his hand for it. Aziraphale hesitated, fiddling with the cap.

“Why do you have so much money?” he asked, “The garage closed down five years ago.” 

“Leave it alone.”

“No,” Aziraphale huffed, squeezing the pen between his fingers, “Are you doing something illegal?”

Crowley swiveled to glower up at him, the lines of his face catching in the lamplight. He was dressed in black again. “So what if I am?” Crowley retorted, jaw tight and lips pressed thin, “I don’t ask you about your boyfriend, don’t ask me about my business.”

Aziraphale was startled, stomach dropping to his feet in a queasy maneuver. “Who told you?”

“I’m not an idiot, despite what you think.” Crowley leaned over to snatch the pen out of his hand, and he bent over the table. Aziraphale curled his fingers into a fist and pressed it to his chest.

“Crowley…”

“S’not like either of us had a lot of options in Tadfield,” Crowley cut him off with a sigh, and all of the anger seemed to have drained out of his voice. “It was convenient. Doesn't mean we were soulmates.” He laughed, the sound catching in his throat.

Aziraphale bit his lip, shuffling closer to the sofa. He sat down next to Crowley, glancing between his lean profile, the curve of his back as he leaned over the papers, and the tremor in his fingertips. He felt sick. “I didn’t really throw out your plants,” he murmured, giving Crowley a small smile as his ex turned to look at him, “I drove them over to Marjorie’s. They’re perfectly fine. I’ll bring them back tonight.” Aziraphale had put the rest of Crowley’s furniture into storage, but he knew how much they meant to him. He couldn’t leave them in the dark.

Crowley’s mouth twisted into an almost-smirk. “You always were too soft on them.”

Aziraphale swallowed and looked away, over his shoulder. He changed the subject, “I saw the terrarium in your bedroom,” it was empty, cleaned out and stored in the closet, “Where is Ashtaroth?”

Crowley’s almost-smirk disappeared, and he looked back at the papers. “She died.” His voice was flat. 

“Oh.”

Ashtaroth was the name of Crowley’s black rat snake, which he’d rescued in secondary school from this awful boy in their year, Hastur, who’d been trying to set her on fire in the woods. Crowley spent all his money to consult a veterinarian and to treat the snake with medicated baths and food dusted with special vitamins. He loved that snake. Aziraphale grew to love her too over time, and it was hard to leave her behind.

Suddenly, Crowley leaned back and pulled his mobile out of his pocket. “Aw hell, I completely forgot,” he gathered the papers up and shoved them in the envelope. He was on his feet a second later.

“What?”

“I’ve got a date tonight,” he threw the pen down on the table and grabbed his sunglasses. He flashed Aziraphale a shite-eating grin and jerked a finger at the envelope, “I’m gonna send these papers to my lawyer. He’ll be able to read all that small print. My eyes aren’t what they used to be.”

“Nothing’s changed,” Aziraphale protested, getting to his feet, “It’s the same paperwork it’s always been!”

Crowley clicked his teeth, wrinkling his nose. “I can’t take _your_ word for it,” he drawled, sauntering into the laundry room, “ _You’re_ cheating on me.”

Aziraphale was outraged. “I’m supposed to believe _you’ve_ been single for fifteen years?!”

Crowley shrugged and reached for the hem of his black henley, pulling it over his head and tossing it on top of the laundry machine. Aziraphale looked away, blushing. “I keep my promises unlike _some_ people.”

“You’re going on a _date_.” He glanced up and immediately regretted it, catching Crowley lean over the dryer for a clean shirt, the roll of his shoulderblade and his toned, er, torso. Aziraphale tried to look at anything else.

“You started it," Crowley argued, "I'll be damned if I let you have all the fun.”

“For God's sake!” Aziraphale faced him and saw that – fortunately – he’d changed shirts. Crowley was staring at him, looking amused. He was always amused when Aziraphale took the Lord's name in vain. “Just sign the bloody papers!”

“No can do,” he replied, scooping up his keys on his way out of the house, “Raincheck on the dinner!”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale followed him outside, and he reached the front yard just as he was climbing in the car, “Don’t you dare!” All he got in response was a jaunty wave before the Bentley turned over. Raising a hand against the flash of floodlights, he watched the car pull out of the driveway. Aziraphale stood fuming on the lawn and thought about all the reasons he hated Crowley. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the wonderful feedback! It's been so encouraging (as has the romcom server!) as I work on this project. I hope you are all staying healthy during this time...


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